


Party Like Your Life Depends On It

by southsideglitter



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Extended Scene, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Missing Scene, SWANGS FOREVER BABY, Sleepovers, Teen Homelessness, Trauma, southside serpents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 06:09:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/southsideglitter/pseuds/southsideglitter
Summary: Sweet Pea just wants to keep Fangs safe, no matter how hard a job it seems.Or: I got salty that the show will never ever show us the aftermath of the constant trauma they inflict on our delinquent snake children, so I wrote this sad fluffy thing about grief, trust, sleepovers and home.Set directly after the last scene of S3 E10 (The Stranger)





	Party Like Your Life Depends On It

They were supposed to be partying like their lives depended on it, but now the party’s dying down. Sweet Pea passes Fangs another beer bottle, nudges him with his shoulder. “You good, bro?”

Fangs leans into him, watching the fire. “Yeah, man.”

But he doesn’t look it. He looks sad. Sad and tired. _No one as good as Fangs should look as bad as that_ , Sweets thinks. But he doesn’t say it. He just slaps Fangs’ back, clinks their bottles together and then drinks.

After another two beers, he asks again. And this time Fangs turns to look at him properly, eyes big with sorrow and fear.

“What’s gonna happen, Pea? I can’t get arrested again. Last time was bad enough, and now Mom’s so sick and--”

“You’re not getting arrested, dude. Not now FP’s sheriff. And not ever again, if I can help it.”

Sweets hooks an arm round his shoulders, pulls Fangs to his side in a lopsided hug. Fangs’ face gets smushed against Pea’s Serpent jacket, but it’s enough to cut him off, stop the panic escalating.

Sweet Pea doesn’t let Fangs go until his breathing settles.

When he calms down, he sits up and meet Pea’s gaze.

Sweets makes his voice as certain as he can. “It’ll be okay, Fogarty. You’ll be okay. I promise.”

Fangs gives a small nod and stares at the flames.

“Do you really think Tall Boy did it?”

He doesn’t need to say what he’s talking about. Pea’s been picturing it too: Joaquin with that symbol carved into his head, dumped in their camp, their home, where DeSantos should have been all along, but not like that. And Jones just taking off like that afterwards, abandoning them for his Red Circle bimbo boyfriend yet again, leaving them behind, leaderless, lost. With the dead body of their former brother. Left to tie up loose ends, bury a friend in Fox Forest in the dead of night and not know if their leader was ever coming back.

Sweet Pea said he’d do it on his own so Fangs didn’t have to, but no way was Fogarty not being there when it happened. _Is this where we’re headed_? Sweet Pea had wondered, as he dug his shovel into the earth again and again, trying and failing to keep his mind blank. _A pointless death, an unmarked grave. No funeral, no choirs or kind words or shared stories. No proper goodbye_. No nothing apart from two teenage boys, holding back tears as they worked in steady silence to get the job done before dawn.

Afterwards, they wiped their faces on their flannel sleeves, returned to their bikes.

“Come on,” Sweets said, and knocked the kickstand loose, the engine grumbling to life.

Fangs looked at him, nodded, and followed.

In a booth at Pop’s, they pooled their change and ordered coffee. Fangs added creamer and four sugars to his and in between sips told Sweet Pea in a series of low mumbles all about him and Joaquin. About how Joaquin had been the first, and how they’d both known from the start it could never have really worked, but even so, they’d had something. And Sweet Pea thought about DeSantos coming back into town, when Fangs was being blamed for what happened with Midge. Another nightmare:  blamed for a crime he didn’t commit, then shot in the stomach, with another of his lovers murdered and left somewhere public to go cold. _How many more knocks is this poor kid gonna have to take_?

But Joaquin had come back. He’d come back for Fangs: to take him into hiding. Somewhere sunny, and beautiful, far away from all this blame and hurt and bullshit drama. And even though Pea had been cut up at the idea of Fangs not being by his side, in the Serpents, he’d seen it on Joaquin’s face that night: DeSantos wanted Fangs happy, and safe. That’s what Sweet Pea wanted too. What he wants still. So he listened to Fangs talk about Joaquin until there weren’t any more words, and then, glancing round at the empty diner, he got up and switched sides, pulling his friend to him and letting him sob.

When Fangs was calm again, they rode their bikes back to their sleeping camp as the sunrise blazed across the sky.

“I’ve got an idea,” Sweet Pea said, nodding to the Jones’ trailer. FP’s bike was nowhere; probably at a booty call with Betty’s psycho mama. Jughead was long gone by then.

“You deserve a proper shower,” Sweet Pea had declared, managing to jimmy the lock and usher Fangs inside. “And a sleep in a proper bed.”

It wasn’t clean, or luxurious, but it was better than being in their separate tents. He wanted them to stay together.

Fangs was like a walking corpse himself by then, but Pea got him washed and into a pair of Jones’ sweatpants he’d unearthed from a drawer, then steered him into the crumpled sheets.

Every time Fangs murmured in his sleep, Sweet Pea held him tighter.

By the time Pea woke up, it was going dark. Stumbling blearily to the bathroom in t-shirt and boxers, he’d frozen when he saw FP on the sofa, beer in hand, watching TV with the sound down low.

“There’s coffee in the machine, boy,” FP had grumbled, rising and grabbing his jacket from the side and sloping towards the door. “And you two better be gone by the time I get back.”

Fangs stirred at the slam. “What’s happening?” he asked, panicked, as Pea returned.

“Nothing, dude. It’s okay. I’m just gonna hit the shower, then we better go.”

The shower hadn’t really been big enough for two, but Fangs hadn’t wanted to be on his own, and that was okay with Sweets.

~~~

And now, here they were, watching the bonfire embers die down, feeling the earlier adrenaline finally start to ebb away too, leaving them exhausted. Not enough beer in their systems or in the entire world to numb the playback of the past few hours; Tall Boy saying those things like he was proud, the hot copper stink of his blood when the gun went off. _Don’t touch him, don’t touch him._  Those heartbreaking sobbing noises again. _Fangs is too good to hurt like that_ , Sweet Pea thinks. He loves that Fangs trusts him enough to let him see. And he also never wants to have to hear those sobs again. But this time, at least, Jones had been there before long, screaming at them like he’s the Game Master still, but coming up with a plan. _A plan that made no goddamn sense, but at least someone else is in charge_. Sweet Pea doesn’t wanna be in charge. He just wants to keep Fangs and himself safe. And then FP had turned up in that uniform, and everyone had cheered, and he doesn’t know what they’ve done with what’s left of Tall Boy but he’s not wasting his sweat on that motherfucker _. Let someone else hide the goddamn body this time_.

For now, Sweets just wants Fangs to be okay. He wants somewhere soft and warm for them to sleep. Maybe something more, maybe not. Sweet Pea pulls his dogtags back and forth on their chain, replaying the times that it’s happened. Always when one of them needs comfort, or when both of them do. A way to put all the hurt and stress and bad stuff on hold for a while, replace it with heat and need and sweetness. Fuck the nightmares, the terror, that awful creeping fear Pea gets sometimes that _it’s gonna be one of them next, and then what will the other one do_? Most days, he buries that down deep, lets anger and frustration cover it up, because who can blame him for being mad at how things are in this ridiculous town, and it’s not like anyone but Fangs is paying attention to him anyway. So usually, he keeps it at bay as best he can. _And if his best isn’t always that good, tough shit, them’s the breaks_. But sometimes, with Fangs, he gets a real escape. Something messy and dirty, white-hot and searing, desire and desperation all wrapped up in something trusting and pure. Something way better than Sweet Pea thinks he has any right to. So if it only happens once in a while, that’s okay. He still feels like the luckiest bastard ever every time it does.

But for now, he just messes up Fangs’ hair and pulls him close again, watches FP swagger back to his cop car and disappear towards the sheriff’s office, calling that he’s got work to do, that there’s gonna be some changes now he’s the law round here. Pea’s eyes seek out Jughead, in the shadows on the other side of the fire, his face lit by the glow from his cell phone screen. Probably messaging Betty. Sweet Pea thinks of falling asleep in a soft bed with warm arms around him and bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself hurling his empty beer bottle at something just to hear the glass the shatter. _Get it together, dude_ , he says to himself, then nods to Jug like everything’s cool.

Jughead comes over, sits with them for a minute. Doesn’t say much, just asks if they’re good. Sweets shrugs his arm back around Fangs’ shoulders, nudges his warmth and weight against him like that’ll give him something solid, something he can rely on enough to answer. They say they’re okay and Jughead moves towards his bike. As he goes, he does a little drumroll on Sweet Pea’s leather-clad shoulder, _as close as Jones ever gets to saying well done_. And then Pea feels something clink into his jacket pocket, close to where Jughead’s hands just were. He watches Jug put on his helmet and point his bike towards Betty’s as Sweets fumbles in his pocket to find out _what the fuck…?_

He closes his fingers over something metal, pulls them out and opens his palm. He and Fangs both stare at Jughead’s trailer keys. And then Sweet Pea grins.

“Sneaky little fucker,” he says.

“Sleepover?” Fangs’ eyes light up for the first time in days. “FP said he’d be out all night laying down the law.”

And it’s just what they need. Because Sweet Pea’s damn sure that they’re not going back to the bunker. Maybe not ever, but definitely not tonight, and their tents are just as sad and bedragged as the two of them look and feel.

But now, they’ve got this. A place they can call theirs, even if it’s just for a few hours. Somewhere with a door that locks; that’s what they need after all the violence and bloodshed tonight. Somewhere with a bed and a shower and maybe even some food, and the thought seems to occur to both of them at once, because they’re already up and on their feet, making their way to the trailer door.

Once they’re inside with the bolts drawn, Fangs leans back against the closed door, eyes closed and exhaling the biggest sigh Sweet Pea thinks he’s ever heard.

“I know the fucking feeling,” Sweets mutters, leaning down to rest their foreheads together. “But we’re good now. We’re safe. Promise.”

Fangs keeps his eyes closed, but lifts his arms to rest them on Sweets’ shoulders, keeping him close.

“Thanks, Pea. For coming to get me, with the gargoyles. For, you know. Everything.”

Pea finds Fangs’ hands and squeezes, hard. Tries to put everything into that motion that he doesn’t know how to ever say.

Then Fangs’ lips find his, and they say a lot too.

Afterwards, when Sweet Pea’s breathing has settled and he finally trusts himself enough to speak again: “Come on, bro. Let’s raid that motherfucking fridge.”

So Fangs makes cocoa and cranks the heating up. Sweet Pea finds a tray of day-old doughnuts, probably donated from Veronica now that they’re protecting the speakeasy. Between them, they drag every blanket and pillow they can find into a makeshift nest in front of the TV, playing some trashy 90s slasher flick Jughead would probably lecture their asses on for hours if he were here, but he’s not. It’s just the two of them, Fangs flinching every time the screen shows blood but shaking his head when Sweets says they can turn it off, because the soundtrack is dope and the violence isn’t too graphic, and besides, they need the distraction.

Sweet Pea is half-worrying, half-smirking at the idea of FP coming back and finding himself locked out, hammering on the door and cursing in his little sherrif’s outfit. But mostly, he’s just soaking up the relief, the sugar, the warmth. The precious feeling of having Fangs to himself without it being anything to do with danger.

They fall asleep with the TV on and the sound of rain on the trailer roof, limbs tangled together, holding on tight whenever the other needs it. And at some point between night and morning, Sweet Pea comes up from his snarled, gore-soaked dreams, looks at Fangs’ soft sleeping face and feels calm settle cool at the back of his neck. Feels like it’s okay to let himself go back to sleep, thinks _people who say we’re homeless don’t know shit_. Sweet Pea gazes at Fangs again and thinks he knows exactly what home is.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments melt my little stone heart. ♥


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